


say a prayer, but let the good times roll

by brodinsons (aeon_entwined)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Lapdance, M/M, Possessive Upgraded Connor | RK900, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Self-Indulgent, Sex Club, Undercover, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Is Bad at Feelings, like...egregiously so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25048141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeon_entwined/pseuds/brodinsons
Summary: The best course of action when you're looking for a challenge in the workplace? Volunteer for an undercover sting operation in a sex club currently undergoing restructuring from the ground up, clearly.
Relationships: Upgraded Connor | RK900/Gavin Reed
Comments: 18
Kudos: 134





	say a prayer, but let the good times roll

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, G9 fandom!
> 
> To get it out of the way first thing so my imposter syndrome can say its piece, I have not played DBH. I was lured into the sandbox under false pretenses by a friend who convinced me to watch those amazing fan films and now I'm neck-deep in hell. Y'all have got an amazing thing going here and despite being an old guard veteran who is shocked by nothing these days, I'm still in awe of the sheer transformative power of fandom. This is just a teeny love letter to this amazing collective of creative people and the enthusiastic acceptance I've received in my short time here.
> 
> I have a TON of [headcanons](https://twitter.com/brodinsons/status/1277071110417166336) about everybody's favorite socially awkward murderbot but I won't bore y'all when you're here to read about emotionally stunted detectives being inadvisably horny on the job. Come yell at/with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/brodinsons)! <3

Despite the fact that the Eden clubs are now strictly monitored and a good percentage of the staff parted ways to pursue other careers or simply live their lives free of the shackles of a past they no longer wanted anything to do with, that doesn’t mean unsavory characters aren’t still going to take advantage of the environment presented by them.

RK900 agreed to go undercover for this particular sting for several reasons. One: a standard day as a detective with the DPD is not particularly taxing for CyberLife’s most advanced creation to date. His processors have been itching for a challenge. Two: RK800 may have been approached, but he’s found that his predecessor possesses an odd amount of _embarrassment_ centering around these sorts of things. Rather _human_ of him, all things considered. Three: it presented a sublime opportunity to gain the “home turf advantage” over his aggravating partner before said partner is brought in to close the noose on their potential collection of traffickers. 

He was certainly not designed with any HR400 specs in mind, but that doesn’t mean he can’t _adapt_. He has RK800’s same list of protocols, and even more besides. Adaptation is the primary function of the RK line. Though the manager seemed unconvinced when he arrived with Captain Fowler’s warrant and the AG’s signed authorization, his “audition” quickly put their fears to rest.

His CyberLife uniform gathers dust for weeks at the precinct, and RK800 informs him over their privately encrypted channel that curious officers have been told he’s liaising with the FBI. RK800 also informs him that Detective Reed has regressed severely in terms of his general demeanor since he went undercover.

Just so.

RK900 has just started his shift for the night when he picks up on a familiar heat signature outside the club’s entrance. 

Ah. Tonight _is_ the night, then. Fowler had indicated that their team’s intel corroborated what other sources had provided and the traffickers would likely make a bid at collecting new “merchandise” sometime this week.

Thankfully there’s no stage routine to worry about tonight, but that does mean he’ll likely have to keep whatever patrons they do have busy on the floor. He glances up right as Reed steps through the doors looking as street smart as ever, and realizes two things in very rapid succession.

First: Reed has not been informed about his precise role in the sting. Second: Reed is _furious_.

The man’s heart rate _skyrocketed_ the moment they made eye contact. Now he’s standing still as a statue; paralyzed by indecision, as the human phrase goes. 

RK900’s attire for this evening is a standard pair of short briefs with the club logo stamped on the waistband, some light makeup to “accentuate those baby blues”, and a dusting of glitter over the defined planes of his shoulders and chest. If he’s scanning Reed correctly, the man is furious but also shockingly aroused. Well. Perhaps the club’s patrons will be better served by the actual employees this evening. It seems he has a crisis to avert. 

Once Reed is jostled inside, he makes a beeline for the bar and hunches over the counter. RK900 observes out of the corner of his eye while he makes smalltalk with both his fellow staff and the occasional patron. Nothing disastrous as of yet, but he also knows Reed isn’t alone. There will be multiple officers present this evening. RK900 trusts them to do their jobs. Circumstances have conspired to make sure he can’t quite trust his partner to do the same.

It takes just under an hour for Reed to slink away from the bar and over to one of the tables closer to the middle of the main room, the same drink still in hand. Perfect. He’s pacing himself but still frazzled enough to be jumpy.

RK900 peels away from the collection of high-rolling executives he’d been halfway paying attention to and makes his way between the tables and low-slung couches until he’s nearly upon his target.

Or prey, as the case may be.

“Awful lonely, here all by yourself,” he says, pitching his voice into something much gentler and smoother than normal. “Waiting for someone?”

Reed twitches and RK900 can hear his heart rate kick up again. 

“Kinda.” Comes the vague response.

“I could keep you company, while you wait,” RK900 offers, leaning his bare hip against the edge of the table. “Won’t ask for more than a good tip, even.”

That gets him a moment of proper eye contact. RK900 is well aware of Reed’s proficiency and competence in the field. He’s _trying_ very hard right now. Unfortunately, all the built-up antagonism and frustration they still haven’t addressed is compromising that professionalism. RK900 intends to keep Reed’s focus on the mission, and maybe a little more on himself than absolutely necessary.

Fine,” Reed bites out, shoving his chair back hard enough that he almost over balances.

RK900 catches the back of it effortlessly and tips it back down as he slides fluidly onto Reed’s lap. Reed isn’t particularly tall, but his thighs are something RK900 has always held something of an aesthetic appreciation for. Now...it might be more than a strictly _aesthetic_ appreciation.

“I need you alert and we can deal with _this_ —” RK900 hisses against Reed’s ear, punctuating the word with a quick buck against Reed’s abdomen. “—after we apprehend our suspects. Now focus.”

Wide-eyed and incensed, Reed seems lost for words. RK900 has no doubt he’d be spitting like a cornered alley cat if they were back at the precinct, but they aren’t. They’re out of the frying pan and into the fire, to borrow a wonderfully descriptive human phrase, and _Detective_ Reed is nothing if not a consummate officer to his core when things come down to it.

His performance is less of a lapdance and more of a casual gymnastics warmup. He doesn’t stay on Reed’s lap the entire time, though whenever he’s circling around the back of the chair, he can see the nervous way Reed’s eyes keep flicking over him like he’s worried he’s about to be left adrift. Oh. That’s...unexpected.

RK900 slips back astride Reed’s lap and marvels at the restraint the man is showing with the white-knuckled grip on either side of the seat beneath him. Physical contact is allowed, depending on the rules laid out by each member of the staff, and RK900 made it clear that he wasn’t exactly a stickler. Yet, Reed still hasn’t made a move. It’s beginning to look suspect.

“Put your hands on my waist, Detective.” RK900 pitches his voice too low for anyone but Reed to hear. 

Reed twitches, though he doesn’t protest. Instead, for the first damned time in their partnership, he does exactly what he’s told. RK900 inhales an unneeded breath as the shockingly warm palms settle above his hips. 

He leverages the back of the chair to assist in making his movements as fluid as possible, despite being hindered by a chassis almost twice as heavy as the club’s remaining android staff. Judging by Reed’s somewhat dazed expression, he’s succeeding admirably. Which is flattering, but not what they need right now.

“You’ve been keeping an eye on our guests, yes?” RK900 rests his lips just below Reed’s ear as he speaks. “I can see four.”

“Two.” Comes the somewhat hoarse reply. “With the same girl. Pink hair.”

“Armed?”

Reed’s fingers dig into his sides as he settles his weight in the cradle of Reed’s hips for a moment. “Concealed carry. Small caliber.”

RK900 grunts in annoyance against the pleasant warmth of Reed’s neck. Humans are all so frustratingly _breakable_. Why do they insist on creating an escalating list of weapons designed to destroy? 

“You’re gonna kill me,” Reed mutters, grip finally relaxing so the minor error warnings about the integrity of the dermal layer over his hips fizzle out in the corner of his HUD. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

“Nonsense,” RK900 replies breezily, now rolling his hips to try and assist in disguising the fact that Reed is indeed getting hard underneath his weight. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it over your desk upon our introduction.”

That earns him a proper laugh, rumbling up from the depth of Reed’s chest and escaping from lips parted in a somewhat disbelieving grin. RK900 tucks the visual away for later analysis after suffering a rather pointed _[software instability]_ warning in the corner of his HUD. Ridiculous, really. He may not embrace deviancy in the same way that his predecessor does but that doesn’t mean he _isn’t_. 

RK900 averts his eyes from the traffickers he’s been observing over a broad shoulder and instead licks a stripe up the side of Reed’s neck. Not exactly a club-approved practice, but he isn’t technically employed here. Nor is Reed a real patron. He savors the burst of data that spirals out from the analysis suite—all of it circling back to identify one  
_\ Reed, Gavin Ezra  
\ Born: October 7, 2002  
\ Employed as a homicide detective by the Detroit Police Department_  
—and tamps down on a triumphant smirk as Reed’s fingertips threaten the integrity of his dermal layer for a second time.

Oh, they are going to have a great deal to discuss once this sting is wrapped up.

Then, Reed tenses under his lazily undulating weight. It wouldn’t have flagged RK900’s multi-thread processor if it hadn’t occurred without any provocation on his part whatsoever. If the abrupt drop in chatter behind him is any indication, the traffickers have wisened up to the cat and mouse game. Shit, as the detective always so eloquently puts it, is about to hit the fan.

“If you’ll pardon the reacharound—”

RK900 slips his hand under Reed’s jacket to grab the sidearm tucked into the holster just behind his right hip. He draws it just as half of his targets scramble under their own conspicuous outer layers. 

It takes less than a microsecond to preconstruct a feasible elimination sequence, and RK900 doesn’t even have to move from his perch to execute it. There are too many civilians in the room to announce themselves and expect the traffickers to simply drop their weapons in compliance. Thus, RK900 fires exactly six times and not a single life is lost.

The traffickers are all neutralized with non-fatal injuries, and both the assembled staff and patrons are unharmed. Reed’s fellow officers are moving to collect their targets already.

Beneath him, all the tension saps out of Reed's body. RK900 gives the man a considering look before gracefully rising to his feet and checking the weapon in his hands. The clip isn’t empty, so back into the detective’s holster it goes.

“Officer Miller and his compatriots should have all the evidence we need on the traffickers themselves. We should return to the precinct for a debrief.”

RK900 extends a hand down to Reed, expression warming slightly as Reed stares up at him like he’s never seen him before in his life.

“Right. Debrief. Obviously,” Reed parrots, taking his hand and making a valiant effort not to sway on his feet once he’s upright. 

He’s no longer sporting an erection, so far as RK900 can discern. Small mercies. Though he has _plans_ already forming that will hopefully involve at least one more encounter with that particular quirk of human physiology.

RK900 tugs Reed closer, placing his mouth against the man’s ear as he begins to speak. “I apologize that you weren’t fully briefed about my involvement. RK800 informs me that you’ve missed me.”

“Man, fuck you,” Reed huffs, giving his chest a weak shove.

“Make no mistake, Gavin,” RK900 murmurs, smoothing his hand down the back of the man’s jacket as he lets the rare usage of that given name roll around on his tongue. “As frustrating a partner as you can be, it’s been...strange, without you.”

If he were wearing his CyberLife uniform or one provided by the DPD, he imagines Gavin would be gripping the fabric of it in both fists. As it is, said fists are clenched tight over nothing against his hips. For all that they haven’t spoken about _any_ of this, it’s startlingly easy to talk _around_ it now.

“You sayin’ you missed me, Terminator?”

Gavin is staring up at him, bravado caught up with an unexpected tangle of vulnerability. That...that deserves a reward.

“Yes,” RK900 says, pulling back to chuck the detective under the chin with a gentle finger as he examines the truth of it. “Now go help Officer Miller and the others. I’ll be along shortly.”

He turns and leaves his partner in the middle of the club as he makes his way back to the dressing rooms, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he considers the myriad of possibilities opening to them once the captain debriefs and dismisses the team back at the precinct. A sting operation in a former sex club wasn’t exactly among the scenarios RK900 had ever preconstructed to push the boundaries of his relationship with his stubborn partner, but it’s almost relieving to know that both androids _and_ humans still possess the ability to surprise him.

When he exits the back rooms dressed in a simple black top and loose sweats, he spots his partner chatting with the club’s manager and makes his way over.

“And this must be that partner you’ve been going on about,” they say, turning to appraise him. “I thought for sure he’d give himself away day one, but he really showed all of us up.”

RK900 inclines his head politely. “I apologize for the mess. I had hoped escalation wouldn’t be necessary.”

The manager shrugs. “Nobody’s dead and I don’t have to worry about staff safety. We didn’t even know about these assholes until you showed up.”

“My partner and I have a debrief to attend, but if you have concerns, I made sure to leave all of the relevant contact information in my file,” RK900 rests a hand on Gavin’s arm to give him a slight nudge. “Officer Miller should be along shortly to take your statement.”

He leads the way outside and is just about to ask whether or not Gavin drove himself when stubborn hands are fisting themselves in the fabric of his shirt and shoving him back against the club’s facade. Normally, RK900 does not move unless he wishes to move, no matter how strong a human may consider themselves. In this moment, he’s simply too startled to protest.

Then, there’s a stubborn _mouth_ crashing against his own and RK900’s hands fly to Gavin’s shoulders just to make sure the man doesn’t inadvertently injure himself.

It could hardly be called a kiss, but then again, when is anything with Gavin Reed easy. 

The man pulls away while they’re both still reeling, and RK900 finds himself captivated by the intensity in those washed out green eyes. This is the bridge, and though they may have crossed it earlier in the club, this is Gavin’s confirmation that he is fully on board. RK900 can barely suppress the growl that wants to vibrate through his synthetic voice box.

“You’re not going to listen to a word Fowler says, are you?”

“Fuck no.” And for the second time in one night, RK900 finds himself blinded by Gavin’s smile.


End file.
